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medical analyzer,” she informed them. “His appetite’s good, though.”
    “He’s due to retire soon, sir.” Pomeroy shook his head.
    Imray did not appear on the bridge at Goldmine. When they were on course for Tunney he called Quent to his cabin.
    “Is no good,” he said hoarsely as soon as Quent’s head came through the sphincter. The ursinoid’s muzzle looked haggard and his fur was staring.
    “You take over, son.” He gestured feebly, dislodging an empty server.
    “Sir, I think you should let Miss Appleby bring the medikit.”
    Imray groaned.
    “For old age, medicals can nothing do. Little pills I try. No good.”
    “We’ll turn back to Farbase hospital.”
    “What they do? Torture me only. I know. With my people—goes quick. You captain. I tell Morgan mind you.”
    “You’re ordering me to take over as acting captain, sir?”
    Imray nodded, his little eyes roving feverishly.
    “But—”
    “No but. You captain.”
    Imray’s eyes closed and his breathing became noisy.
    Quent studied him, scowling.
    “Yes, sir,” he said slowly. “I’ll have Pomeroy patch you into the record log.”
    One of Imray’s eyes glinted briefly and closed again.
    Quent withdrew into the shaft of the Rosenkrantz. His first command. All the knots which had been smoothing from his face came back, tighter than before.
    The others accepted the situation without comment, beyond Sylla’s sarcastic use of his new title. Morgan, too, proved as good as Imray’s word. He continued silent but during the maneuvers at Tunney the energies were flawless. Quent’s frown deepened.
    He took to roaming the ship at odd hours, sleeping little and poorly. They were now at the farthest leg of their patrol, running along the sector rim to Sopwith. On their starboard the Galaxy was unpatrolled and largely unknown. Quent spent hours at the scanners. He had seen wild space before from the bridge of the mighty and virtually invulnerable Adastra. From a peebee with four small rockets and only meteor shielding it looked decidedly wilder. Quent dreamed of nucleonic storms and got up to check over the sensors again.
     
    Toujours j’entends la mer qui fait du bruit,
    Triste comme l’oiseau seule…
     
    Quent groaned and pulled the cocoon flaps over his ears to shut out the mechanical drone from the bridge. Sylla was making the computer translate poetry into his native Ter-French. Presently the droning was replaced by incomprehensible wrangling.
    Quent sighed and jackknifed out of his cocoon. It was nearly his shift and they would be coming into Sopwith soon.
    In the shaft he found Pomeroy backing out of Imray’s cubicle, bulb in hand.
    “How is he, Mr. Pomeroy?”
    The little man wagged his head, bleary eyed, but said nothing.
    In the wardroom Miss Appleby was setting out fresh smoked ham she had wangled at Tunney.
    “Just coffee, thank you,” Quent told her.
    She smiled sympathetically at the standing furrow in his brow and vanished back to her storerooms.
    Quent took his coffee up to the bridge, relieving Svensk and Sylla, and settled wearily to hear a data tape. Pomeroy straggled into his cubby and began to doze. In the wardroom the other two continued to argue fitfully.
    Suddenly Pomeroy sat up.
    “Sopwith, sir. Seems to be a bit of trouble.”
    “What type of trouble, Mr. Pomeroy?”
    “Too early to tell yet, sir. Mostly noise.”
    Sopwith was a Non-Human affiliated planet whose native name was Szolphuildhe. The native race was described as small, timid, pinkish in color, bipedal, and probably bisexual, with a fibers-and-ceramics technology. It was Human habitable but no Humans lived there.
    “Sounds like they been attacked by a band of marauding monsters,” Pomeroy reported presently. “Says they came in a sky-boat—wait a minute, sir.” He squinted, listening. “About them monsters, sir. Appears like they’re Humans.”
    “Humans?”
    “That’s how the kinks describe ‘em, sir. Like us.”
    “What are they doing to the